


Icarus

by theladyscribe



Series: Icarus [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Brothers, Coming of Age, Gen, New York Rangers, Pittsburgh Penguins, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 13:52:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9444068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: Bobbie catches him rubbing against the bark of a tree in the yard, and he scolds Carl. "You'll damage them doing that," he says, his own wings fluttering with a hint of worry. Bobbie has just turned fourteen, his wings almost fully formed already, in the prime of adolescence. His feathers are brown with flecks of black, and his wings compress close to his back. They're on the small side, much too small for flight — cupid wings — the same as their parents', and Carl knows that his will probably be similar.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is neither the story about Phil Kessel helping Carl groom his wings during molt nor the tragic fic the title would suggest. I'll save those for next time.
> 
> Many thanks to hazel_3017, who fixed my mistakes and told me this was ready to post.

The wings come in early, tiny nubs between Carl's shoulder blades that itch like mosquito bites for days before turning tender and sore. They're in just the wrong place for him to touch them, and he nearly pulls a muscle trying to brush his fingers against the bumps where his wings will be.

Bobbie catches him rubbing against the bark of a tree in the yard, and he scolds Carl. "You'll damage them doing that," he says, his own wings fluttering with a hint of worry. Bobbie has just turned fourteen, his wings almost fully formed already, in the prime of adolescence. His feathers are brown with flecks of black, and his wings compress close to his back. They're on the small side, much too small for flight — cupid wings — the same as their parents', and Carl knows that his will probably be similar. That's alright; it means they won't get in the way when he plays sports.

"They itch," he tells Bobbie, a bit of whine to his voice.

"I know," Bobbie says. "Remember when mine were coming in?"

Carl nods. He and Mom had taken turns rubbing their hands over the tender nubs on Bobbie's back. Carl remembers that they were warm to the touch, like the heat of a low-grade infection.

"Come on," Bobbie says. "We'll find some ice to put on them for now." He slings an arm over Carl's shoulders and leads him back to the house.

*

Carl's wings grow. And grow. And grow. He is as skinny at twelve as he was at nine, but his wingspan is already almost twice his height. The wings have become cumbersome, dragging behind him when he skates or runs and unfurling at the most inconvenient times. He tries to keep them closed, to tuck them behind him, but they flutter open when he's excited or startled. He's teased about it at school, and though he knows that the other boys are jealous, he still wishes his wings were smaller.

It's not meant to be, though. The ornith specialist his parents take him to says that when they've fully matured, they'll be big enough for flight. "But only if you exercise and eat properly," Dr. Hamadi warns. "And you shouldn't fly without supervision or higher than the trees. It's dangerous to go too high. You can make yourself very sick."

Carl watches carefully as she shows him how to clean his hard-to-reach feathers and how to stretch his wings so they stay strong and healthy. She also gives him a bunch of brochures on wing maintenance and harnesses for playing sports. 

It's frustrating, actually, the first few times he tests out the harness Dad got for him. It's almost too small for his wings, but it's too big for his frame, the straps cinched as tight as they'll go around his chest and still too loose to keep his wings from dragging like a parachute behind him when he skates.

Bobbie laughs at first, but stops when he catches the tears welling in Carl's eyes. He makes Carl take the harness off and they take it to Dad, who works his dad-magic and carefully stitches the straps to fit. It looks funny, extra loops falling awkwardly under Carl's jersey, but Dad says they shouldn't cut them in case he grows before his wings do. Carl thinks that will never happen, but he never thought he'd have wings big enough to fly, so he just nods and promises to make it work.

*

Carl is small, and no matter how much he works out, he never seems to put on the muscle weight that his teammates have. He's thirteen now, and still skinny as a rail, though his wings are massive, as wide as his bedroom when he stretches them out.

He thinks something might be wrong with him, maybe, but when he brings it up at his ornith check-up, Dr. Hamadi smiles kindly and shakes her head.

"Your wings require a lot of energy and strength, Carl. You can work out all day long and eat all the protein you can possibly eat, but you'll never be able to build muscle mass the way the other boys can. Your wings take up too much of that energy. You've been practicing with them, haven't you? Unfurling them, letting them stretch, like I showed you?" She looks at him over her glasses, a knowing smirk on her lips. "Trying to lift yourself off the ground?"

Carl nods, sheepish, feeling caught out, but Dr. Hamadi's smile gets wider.

"Good," she says. "Strong wings are healthy wings, and healthy wings will keep _you_ healthy. I want you to keep practicing, but make sure you have someone with you, just in case. Broken wings take a long time to heal, and sometimes they don't heal properly.

"Now, your father mentioned that you are still playing hockey, yes? We should talk about ways to protect your wings when you play. Those harnesses keep your wings down, but they're not designed for protection."

*

In between bike rides and football matches and skating, Carl and Bobbie spend that summer strengthening his wings. He opens his wings as he rides his bike into town, working on tilting them into and against the wind and thrilling at the way he glides down the hill. He does the same when he and Bobbie go ice skating, pulling his wings tight to his body and unfurling them again as he speeds around the rink.

He keeps the real flying quiet, though, not wanting to incur too much jealousy from his friends whose wings are smaller or who don't have wings at all. The real flying practice is something he only does at home, with Bobbie nearby just in case. Carl knows Dad keeps an eye on them from his study, though he never says anything about it when they rush through breakfast and head for the field at the edge of the woods.

His wings are big enough that he can get some lift, pull himself off the ground, if only for a moment. It's difficult, his body heavy and his wings untried, but Carl stretches them every day and he knows they're getting stronger.

He's grateful for their house's location, out in the countryside, bordered by fields and forest, with plenty of space to work without having to worry about landing in a neighbor's tree or lingonberry patch by accident. It's also isolated enough that only Bobbie witnesses him crash to the ground and skin his hands and knees when his wings give out in a sudden gust of wind the first time he lifts himself above Bobbie's head.

Bobbie cleans him up, Carl hissing at the sting of the rubbing alcohol, and two days later, they try again. This time, Carl pays attention to the direction of the breeze and tries to adjust the tilt of his wings accordingly. He still loses his balance, but the landing is much smoother than that first time.

Once he figures out how to take off and land without crashing into anything, Carl starts pushing higher and higher, climbing above the tree line and testing out how to turn and glide.

No one except Bobbie sees him catch a thermal one day that lifts him high above the trees, scaling high enough that he's dizzy with it. The sun feels impossibly warmer up here, the air sharper and the wind more brisk. He's alone in the sky, climbing higher and higher. If he were to reach out, he might even be able to touch the sun itself.

Carl wants to stay up here forever, but then he glances down and realizes how high up he actually is. The vertigo is a punch to the gut, like being boarded by a fourth-line goon, but he gathers himself enough to tip sideways, like he's seen hawks and vultures do. It's enough to escape the thermal and float back down to the ground, heart thundering.

Bobbie whoops with delight when he lands, hugging Carl and shouting, "You did it! It worked! Can you do it again?"

"I think so," Carl gasps, dizzy and feeling weightless at the same time, "but tomorrow."

Bobbie whoops again and spins Carl around. "Tomorrow, then."


End file.
